


Letters

by LegendaryBard



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 00:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20126167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: What Craddock @askgentlemanghost has been up to in his little interlude; ft the mayo incidentyou're gonna need to be up-to-date on whats going on in the askverse in order to understand this AT ALL, methinks. even then it might be difficult. o well





	Letters

He’d started keeping a journal. 

He’d kept journals through varying courses in his life. Even though it was ill-advised for highwaymen, a record of activity helped when you found yourself inebriated and needing to settle something, or if your memory failed you. 

And the Gentleman Ghost’s memory was a very, very long thing. 

This  _ recent  _ journal was one of, no doubt, dozens. He piled them up in his mausoleum in a stack of dusty volumes; he’d lost count of how many there were, and undoubtedly,  _ actually  _ lost some of them. To time, maybe, or to rot and mice; it did not matter. 

This recent journal was a change, though. Craddock had started doing something that was completely out-of-character and ill-advised for him. 

The first time it was a spur-of-the-moment decision; just an attempted break in the monotony. A way to start fresh with a new book. The second time, though, he had no explanation for. The third time, it’d become a habit, and he didn’t- or couldn’t- break it anymore.

Ghosts are creatures of habit. They have simplistic minds that crave and yearn to do what they did in life; which is why they are so keen on mistaking granddaughters for long-lost lovers, why they haunt the same building for centuries, why they shriek and wail when they are confronted with the reality of death. They can go mad if kept from their routine long enough; turn into weeping, screaming creatures full of malice, with a mind so tattered it is a  _ kindness  _ to stick an nth metal blade in their ghostly flesh. 

To the point: James Craddock had started addressing his journal  _ to  _ someone, instead of making an account for his perusal at a later date. It wasn’t until several entries in before he questioned himself; he fought stilted wars in his head, convincing himself of its insignificance while simultaneously speculating on his own motivation. 

_ Dear Edward,  _ the first entry read. It was dated June 30th, 1999. 

_ My sincerest apologies for the somewhat awkward correspondence we shared over tea; I wished desperately to tell you the truth of the encounter, since I suspect what I had to do to protect my pride has made me appear in a rather unseemly light. I had stolen, perhaps, a few of your things, and in truth, the whole meeting was an arrangement to put them back. Any awkwardness surrounding food was not the result of—  _ (here, many things had been scratched out, justifications and the like, and the sentence simply broke off there; Craddock had elected to simply move on.)

_ In any case, your things were returned. Perhaps not where I had found them, but returned, nevertheless.  _

After those sentences, Craddock had had a fleeting moment of weakness. He had been remembering the steady heartbeat of a fleshy wrist under his fingertips; the shudder that swept through Mr. Nygma’s form, the warmth of his skin. 

_ I would like to see you again. Our arrangement proved more than satisfying to me, and I imagine you must feel the same way. After all, you are not sacrificing much in exchange for the knowledge I can presume ghost-chasers would kill for; what is a touch to the wrist in trade for intricate understanding of the spectral form?  _

The conflicted, squirming guilt in those words nearly curdled Craddock’s stomach. Rereading it now, he sounded shamelessly depraved; like a brothel customer loudly begging to be beaten or whipped, rationalizing it with a generous deluge of money. 

_ But I will wait, as desperation is an ugly color on a man such as myself. Perhaps I will visit again in a month or so—  _

He had realized then, ink still wet, that a month from then he would, sadly, be out of the country. The King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes would be on the twenty-fourth in July, and it was his intention to stay a little while afterwards; to congratulate Gerald Mosse personally if he won, and to perhaps break his kneecaps if he lost. 

_ —likely sometime in early August,  _ he had gone on to write.  _ Further arrangements will be made with your own personal input, of course, but hopefully, in that time, it will have been long enough since my theft to explain and apologize for my behavior without risking your ire. We will see.  _

_ Your humble servant, _

_ James Craddock  _

There were a dozen or so more entries after that, all short and rather dull. Most of them were not even signed. It seemed superfluous. 

_ Dear Edward,  _

_ Nothing of note today at all.  _

_ Your humble servant, _

_ James Craddock _

_ Dear Edward, _

_ I saw that delightful hatter out today, along with a strikingly beautiful woman; Ms. Kyle, I believe? She was the one who tallied the contest between I and that wretched contortionist. I said hello, but left them to their brunch. I am not obtuse or imposing.  _

_ Your humble servant, _

_ James Craddock _

_ Dear Edward, _

_ Today I begin my journey to England for the Stakes. In my youth, ships made me sick (what a delightful voyage coming to America turned out to be) and I am unsure about the aeroplanes of the modern day. I know they are godly chariots that can move at speeds hereto undreamed of, but I do not trust them. I am certain that their tiny confined space would drive me mad.  _

_ Sadly, I leave this journal with the rest of my possessions in Gotham— I have told you this before, but I believe it bears repeating; I cannot take objects through walls with me. A journal will be limiting in where I can go and what I can do, and I have already had it for so long that I couldn’t stand being forced to leave it behind in England.  _

_ In August, then, I will see you again.  _

_ Your obedient servant, _

_ James Craddock _

He had taped in, at a later date, the furious note he had scrawled on the night of the 24th: 

_ DALIAPOUR LOST!!!  _

_ At this point, the only thing keeping Mosse’s kneecaps intact, dear Edward, is how terribly Fallon and Oath did as well! _

He had stayed a while, planning vengeance for the humiliation of betting on a last-place horse, but ultimately decided against it. He’d like to be free of this whole wretched affair, return to Gotham, and begin betting anew. 

He certainly would not be going to the 2000’s King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, that was for certain. 

He arrived back in Gotham on the first of August, and he settled in, still prickly after his complete loss.

_ Dear Edward,  _

_ The horse I was betting on for the Stakes came in last, which is an incredible disappointment— handing the money over to Squire Shade felt like handing over my firstborn. I am  _ ** _almost certain _ ** _ he was the cause of Oath and Daliapour’s injuries, though I can’t prove it. It’s that infuriatingly empty face of his; always impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Poker with him is murder.  _

_ ( I should hope I don’t look like that to you, though I have been told Squire Shade and I look strikingly similar. ) _

_ In any case, I expect to be visiting you in a week or so, since I tire of having so few victories to my name as of late; there was the failure of Daliapour, of course, but I seem to have been on a losing streak when it comes to horse betting. I put money on Vicar and Sellers, for God’s sake, and look at how  _ ** _that _ ** _ turned out.  _

_ At least the payment  _ ** _you _ ** _ give me can’t be repossessed by Shade.  _

_ Your obedient servant, _

_ James Craddock _

And, when he was a little more sensible the following day, he journaled again. 

_ Dear Edward, _

_ My apologies for the unending gloom. Ghosts are creatures of melancholy, as I believe I said before. We are quite prone to dreariness.  _

_ Instead, we should both look forward to satiating your curiosity soon! I believe I will be visiting you tomorrow to schedule in a date. It will be nice to see a friendly face again.  _

_ Your obedient servant,  _

_ James Craddock _

_ = _

They were confessionals, really. 

He had absolutely no intention to  _ ever  _ let Mr. Nygma read these. They weren’t even  _ for  _ Edward, not really. They were Craddock’s, wholly, letters sent to himself  _ about  _ Edward rather than letters intended for the prince of puzzles himself to read. 

He did not know Mr. Nygma well enough to share these kinds of thoughts with him, that was for certain. He had no doubt the man was not interested in horse racing in the slightest; its popularity was waning in the wake of the automobile race, and Mr. Nygma was technologically minded, likely preferring the marvel of oil and piston rather than flesh and sinew. 

Unfortunate, so unfortuna

** _TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN PEOPLE KILLED IN OTISBURG DISTRICT EXPLOSION! _ **

The headline of the latest newspaper was surprising, but went unregarded by the Gentleman Ghost. He skimmed past it to the sports section. Craddock could count on one hand, without using all his fingers, the number of people he would be distressed if died, and he had no reason to believe any of them would be in Otisburg. 

He went to Mr. Nygma’s house that evening, and found it curiously quiet and dark. In the vaguest terms, it had been  _ left-  _ it certainly did not appear as if he’d been forced against his will to leave- but it also did not appear as though he were intending on spending a good deal of time away. 

Craddock waited for him- poking around, trying to see if the valuables he’d left last time had been restored to their proper place- but enough time had passed that he began to experience mild…  _ concern.  _ When it loomed close to the witching hour, he figured that Mr. Nygma would not be returning any time soon, and gave up. He returned back to where he had left his journal, cracked it open on his knee, and began another entry:

_ Dear Edward,  _

_ You were missing tonight. I imagine in the company of a beautiful woman, for your own sake.  _

(It was not jealousy that made him write these words; in truth, he felt a slight glow of pride at the idea that Nygma was out, enjoying the high life, champagne in hand and a woman on his arm; certainly he  _ deserved  _ such a thing, and it was the most pleasing explanation for why he had not come back.) 

_ It is my intention to try again tomorrow.  _

_ Your humble servant,  _

_ James Craddock _

But he was not there the following day, and Craddock began to worry. Two hundred dead… Certainly one of them was not  _ Nygma,  _ though. 

_ Of course not.  _

And even if it was, why should he care? He barely knew the man. 

_ Maybe now he’ll be able to experience ghosthood for himself,  _ was a cruel, mean, uncharacteristic thought that flitted through his mind as he rode Steed to Otisburg at the crack of dawn. Craddock jerked at the thought, and Steed snorted, angrily, at the unwelcome tug on its reins. 

The sentiment expressed in those words was anger— but on closer introspection, he was  _ frightened. _ Him.  _ Craddock.  _ The Gentleman Ghost.

**Disgusting.** Perhaps there was a reason he kept the company of spectres like Shade, and not fragile mortal men. He never had to worry whether or not  _ Shade  _ had died in explosions. 

There was enough residual spiritual energy in the bombed-out shell of the block to make Craddock dizzy. Faint phantasms were oozing out of cracks in the concrete, sobbing and clawing at nothing. They were confused. Hurt. That kind of thing came with a death so quick and unexpected. 

They tried to claw at Steed’s legs when Craddock went through them, but they were yet so new, yet so weak, that they couldn’t even touch another spectral being, much less the world around them. Humans couldn’t see them yet. Perhaps they never would. 

He trotted Steed around awhile, and found himself troubled. He couldn’t  _ feel  _ Nygma here. Craddock was certain that he would’ve been able to pick him out of all the miserable, barely-formed spectres in the wreckage. There would be a particular thrum to his soul, a brightness glinting in the sea, like a fragment of diamond among an endless stretch of sand. But it was all flat grey. 

_ Not dead,  _ Craddock confirmed to himself, eventually. He was mildly surprised by how brusque the thought was.  _ At least, not dead here.  _

So where, then? Whatever hospital was closest? 

It was going to be a long, long day.

=

Edward was not dead. 

After a long while of drifting through room after room, attempting to manually find Mr. Nygma, Craddock gave up. He successfully bullied a nurse at gunpoint into telling him the room number, gave her a wallet he’d stolen by way of compensation, and had gently, invisibly, drifted into the room.

Nygma had visitors. Craddock didn’t recognize them. 

He knew, as soon as he laid his eyes upon Edward, it was not his place to be here. He was an unwanted voyeur, and he knew it; he had a  _ responsibility,  _ with powers like his, to respect the privacy of people he would come in contact with; it was why, despite being able to at any time, he had not gone out of his way to watch Nygma after their first meeting. It was why he did not spy on sleeping people and feel the thrumming rhythm of their pulses under his fingertips, despite his curious thirst for the living. 

Craddock snatched his glance at Edward- still feeling a vague tingle of guilt, like a bellboy peeping through the keyhole at a bathing maid- and retreated. 

He returned back to his safehouse, but he did not like the feeling of being  _ here,  _ either. A vague tingle of distress had worked its way through him, and at a moment’s glance in a mirror he could tell he was having some  _ difficulty  _ keeping his form in check. 

He grabbed his quill, reached for his journal, then stopped.

Perhaps it was time to write a letter to Edward. A  _ real  _ letter. Something he would actually deliver to the man.

The only thing stopping Craddock was wondering if Edward would even  _ want  _ it. Almost dying has a way of making you highly irritable to the pestering of strangers. 

But he returned to the hospital anyway- holing himself up in a storage closet he would no doubt be claiming for a while- and settled in to write a proper draft. 

Nothing overly sentimental, but nothing brusque and cold, either. 

_ Dear Edward, _

_ It has been quite some time since we’ve last come into correspondence! I was hoping our next meeting would be sometime soon,  _ _ but never could I have imagined some food obsessed maniac _

Oh, this was going to be a hard letter. 

He tried again.

_ Dear Edward, _

_ It has been quite some time since we’ve last come into correspondence. I was hoping our next meeting would be sometime soon, but it seems that unfortunate circumstances have decided against it.  _

_ I do not know much about your individual case- nor the circumstances surrounding how it happened- so I do not know how well you are. _ _ It seemed folly to risk holding another nurse hostage after the first one, so I will settle for the fact that you are simply alive.  _

That would not paint him in a good light. 

Maybe this letter ought to be painfully short. The shorter it was, the less chance Craddock had of writing his foot into his mouth. 

There were seven attempts at the letter; drafts that he blasted with his cane into smoking spectral ash. It made Craddock feel marginally better to watch the smoking confetti twirl in the air and crumple to fine powder; a little like unyoking himself from past mistakes. 

_ To Mr Nygma: _

_ It has been quite some time since we’ve last come into correspondence, and I express my regret that it is only now that I’ve contacted you again. I would like to extend this regret into an apology for leaving a letter instead of visiting personally, but I’m sure you can understand why I erred on the side of caution.  _

_ I do not know the particulars of your case, but I do wholly wish you well in your recovery. I imagine you’re not interested in learning the mysteries of the spectral plane first-hand, and frankly, I am not eager for you to, either.  _

_ To another point: I am closeby. If you would have me visit you, fold this letter crossways and leave it out in the open. If not, do nothing. I imagine after what you have been through, a spirit’s tidings are not the cheeriest you could receive, and I understand if you would wish to wait until you are better to resume your interest in the supernatural. _

_ I wish you all the best, Mr. Nygma, and hope your recovery is swift and leaves you as well as you were before.  _

_ All the best, _

_ James Craddock  _

**Author's Note:**

> ghost, please


End file.
